


Transport

by Hestia01



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, F/M, M/M, Season 3 Spoilers, gratuitous snuggling too, love and big squishy cuddles, lovefest, yes another one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2070054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hestia01/pseuds/Hestia01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John and Mary leave their baby with Sherlock for the night, Mary can't stop worrying.  Meanwhile, Sherlock would give anything to be in Mary's place.  Conveniently granted wishes are inconvenient</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transport

**Author's Note:**

> Stop that, stop that, it's gotten silly! Silly! I claim no ownership, this is just what happens when I get clever ideas.

“You're sure it won't be too much trouble?” Mary asked Sherlock as she handed her baby over to him. The tall, dark figure took the child, bouncing her uncertainly.

  


“Oh, I don't see how she'll be any trouble. Sounds like you and John need a night to yourselves. How hard can it be?”

  


John exchanged a glance with his wife, shaking his head. He handed his friend a large diaper bag. “All right. Bottles, diapers, bath stuff, everything she should need is in there. Put her down around seven, she'll probably be hungry again around ten, probably again around midnight. You know, she sleeps about as often as you do. You two should get along great.”

  


“When you warm up her formula, make sure you test it on your arm first,” Mary reminded him, feeling a bit nervous about parting with her infant daughter for the first time. It was true, though, that she and John really needed a night off from this. They were both very grateful that Sherlock had offered to step in for them for tonight. If it went well, this could become a regular thing. “Rest of the instructions are written down on this notepad. Do you really think this is all right?”

  


Sherlock took the pad of paper and read it, balancing the baby in one arm as if she was a sack of potatoes. “Formula, diaper, bath, bed, repeat. Got it. Don't worry. It's all under control. Leave everything to Uncle Sherlock,” he purred reassuringly at his godchild. “As soon as Mummy and Daddy have gone, we're going to watch gory autopsy videos and eat ice cream, and fire off guns in the house for the fun of it,” he added with a wicked chuckle, peeking at his friends, his adopted family, to make sure they knew he was pulling their chains.

  


“Better wait til she's a bit older for that, maybe four or five,” John requested, giving his daughter a goodbye kiss. “Be good now. I...don't know which one of you I mean that most for. See you tomorrow.”

  


“Good night, Sherlock. Thanks again. Nighty-night, Shirley. Mummy will see you soon.” Mary kissed them both on the cheek before scurrying for the door.

  


The detective chuckled, holding the baby with both hands again, cuddling her close and supporting her head. He actually looked quite proud of her. “I'm surprised you really named her that. I thought it was a joke at first.”

  


“It was, but the name kind of stuck,” John admitted. “Thanks again, you're a real pal.”

  


The door closed, leaving Sherlock alone with his namesake. She seemed quiet for now, but he'd been to John and Mary's home enough to know how capable she was of turning into a little banshee at a moment's notice. Still, he took advantage of his current good fortune and set her down on the sofa, setting up the portable bassinet in his bedroom. He unfolded an old card table he'd borrowed from Mrs. Hudson and laid out the diaper-changing supplies, mixed up a few bottles of formula and set one in a small pot over a Bunsen burner in the kitchen. He clapped his hands with an assured nod. “There, perfect. Who said babies are hard?” He took a quick peek into the living room again to make sure the baby was all right, then went on his way to the bathroom. He wrinkled his nose at the mess, as if noticing it for the first time. The way he kept things had always been good enough for him, and John when he'd lived there, but one look at the sink and the thought of bathing his niece in it made him dig underneath for a bottle of cleaner and a wash rag. In ten minutes, the bathroom was sparkling.

  


All in all, Sherlock was feeling pretty satisfied with his performance as care-giver, despite not having done anything yet. Still, he felt ready.

  


  


All the way home, Mary was anxious, fidgeting with her hands nervously. She didn't say a word, but kept looking over at her husband, wondering if he was feeling the same.

  


John looked over at her, watching his wife twitch. “Christ, Mary, settle down! You're a bloody assassin, I thought you'd have steadier nerves than that!” It was the first time he'd mentioned her past out loud. The subject had been by unspoken agreement declared taboo. Mary looked sharply at him in surprise, and was more surprised still to see a smile on his face. His adorable, teasing smile. Mary instantly returned it with a short laugh, forcing herself to hold her hands still. Still, these were new waters they had entered. She wonders for a moment if she was allowed to dish it back.

  


“I'll let you guess which of those jobs is more nerve-wracking. I can set and defuse a bomb with my eyes closed, but can't stand to have our daughter out of sight. Can you imagine being both at the same time?”

  


“What, laid out on a roof somewhere with a sniper-rifle and a little one in a carrier on your back?”

  


She tittered again, relieved that they've finally broken the ice on such a tender subject. “Is it really all right?”

  


John pulled to a stop in front of their flat, looking across the console at his wife. “I've given it plenty of thought. I love you, Mary. All of you. Whatever you did, or whatever you were...it's still you. I'm done being pissed off. To be completely honest...” he trails significantly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Sometimes I think it's kind of cool.” They reach for each other's hands. Mary couldn't even say what a relief that was, the weight that he'd finally taken off her shoulders. He'd stand by her, no matter what. “And I know not to get on your bad side. God knows if you still have a list of names somewhere.”

  


“Never know,” she agreed mildly before getting out of the car. Mary skipped up the stairs, feeling light and liberated for the first time since that dreadful subject had come to the fore a year ago. She was so happy she could practically sing.

  


John saw the spring in his wife's step and was strangely sobered by it. He wondered how long she'd dragged guilt behind her, guilt and self-loathing that he'd heaped upon her. How much it had hurt her to hide certain aspects of herself from him. Even after his earlier acceptance of her that Christmas with Sherlock's parents, when he'd officially told her he still loved her, they'd never talked about it. There were so many questions he could ask her! That he should have! Certainly, most of her activity would be considered classified, but there were ways of avoiding specifics. How many times had she stopped herself from reminiscing _“That reminds me of the time that I--_ ”Sure, he'd heard her offer an opinion on Sherlock's cases, but it had always been the three of them. They'd had a buffer to diffuse the tension.   


  


Sherlock took up with the darndest people, so upon closer inspection it wasn't remotely surprising that the two of them had instantly hit it off. John once had sarcastically suggested that Mary and Sherlock should have gotten married, given that their behavior patterns were indicative of a similarly cracked moral compass, but no...she was more like a long-lost sister to him. They were the same breed, of the same mold. Twins, born to different parents by some fluke. More than ever, John felt grateful to have both of them in his life, the people whom he loved most in the world. So what if all of his closest friends were sociopaths? It was as if by some magic they could all recognize each other, instantly like each other.

  


John followed Mary in the front door and into the bedroom. She looked at him curiously as he unbuttoned her blouse and slid his fingers over her warm skin. He drew her close. She felt warmth pool between her legs as she shrugged her top away and slithered out of her slacks. His hands, he had absolutely magical hands! Down they glided, cupping her bottom endearingly as she helped him out of his clothes as well. This was the first time they'd been intimate since their honeymoon, it seemed like ages. At first, they'd both simply been too busy with work to think of bodily needs. Then, the truth of her past had come out, and he withheld as extra punishment. It was bad enough that he didn't speak to her for weeks, months, but that he pulled away from her physically was almost more than she could take. By the time they reconciled, she was too far along in her pregnancy to safely indulge. After Shirley was born, they'd had no time for anything else, despite both of them wanting to and being able to. Tonight, they both found they had to ease back into it. They lay together on the bed, hands drifting where they might. John traced his fingers down Mary's inner thigh, making her giggle shrilly in his ear as she held him tightly about the shoulders. She hitched herself up around him, further inviting his touch. It sent sweet shivers down her whole body!

  


John was such a tease. He traced his fingers over her, just barely brushing her opening. Mary groaned frustratedly, thrusting herself toward his hand, which he drew away by a fraction of an inch. Just out of reach.

  


“Please...please...” she whimpered, knowing he liked to hear her beg as she tried to bring herself beneath his touch. Still, he only brushed, tauntingly, nearly bringing tears to her eyes. “More...more!” she shrieked. “Damn—you!” Mary tried reaching down with her own hand to finish it properly, but he took her wrist in his free hand, quieting her with a kiss. Her other hand was pinned between their bodies, just as John had planned.

  


Mary fell backward onto the bed, and John followed, still just grazing her sensitive skin, making her shriek, making her beg and plead. He knew, though. He knew the more she screamed for more, for full satisfaction, it meant she was fully enjoying lying in torment, just on the edge, out of reach, under his power. He kissed her neck, wet and dominating, across her cheeks and mouth until she fair glistened from it. Still she struggled, whimpering for more. The desire, the pleasurable frustration of it was more than she could bear. It was the most remarkable feeling, to be so completely under someone else's power. Even now, he graced her only with the most feather-light touches as she squirmed beneath him. She could remain like this forever and die happy. Flushed and fierce and so very much alive. Such pleasant torture did wonders for her awareness, heightening her scope for physical sensations. The breeze coming through the window rippled deliciously against her shoulders, offering a perfect counter to her husband's radiant heat. Her struggling was a sham, and they both knew it, as was his use of his strength against her. Former assassin, former soldier, they both knew that if they were truly locked in battle, neither of them would hesitate to use their training, strength, and skill against each other. The situation called for little more than an act between them both, and it suited their needs to most satisfying results.

  


John watched his wife's face, in the grips of twin grasps of pain and pleasure. He knew just how to play it. He'd once let it slip that he'd played the clarinet in school, and since then she never failed to praise his fingering technique or his embouchure. He was never that good in the school orchestra, but here, on his marriage bed, he was a virtuoso.

  


Finally, he gave in to her, sliding into her as she moaned in satisfaction. Grinding against him in time, pulling herself up to kiss his mouth, neck, collarbone...He thrust within her, gaining momentum, falling into a rhythm. It felt like it had been an age since they'd last done this! What a relief it was! In their minds, they thanked Sherlock for giving them this night together, a night they both obviously needed.

  


An hour later, Mary was curled up convulsively, clinging to her husband as the aftershocks petered out. Soon, they both relaxed into the dark depths of sleep.

  


Despite such a wonderful evening, Mary's last thought as she drifted off was of her daughter. Now free of pleasant distractions, her mind latched onto thoughts of her baby and wouldn't let go. She fixated on it, even in her restless dreams, wishing herself to Baker Street, to be with her daughter. The separation would allow no rest.

  


  


  
Sherlock lay in bed, trying to sleep while realizing he was bound to be woken up any minute. The time that wasn't spent anxiously keeping track of his godchild, he found himself wistfully envying Mary. She and John were more than likely engaged in typical nightly bedroom activities. For the first time, he was curious what it was like, to be physically loved by someone, by John. He sighed, forcing the thought away and failing. He liked Mary! He did! So why did he feel so jealous at times? He knew that John would never be as drawn to him as he was. Their unique friendship was more than he could have ever hoped for. It seemed rude to wish for more. Still, when he saw John with his wife, no matter how he felt about her personally, no matter how highly he thought of her and admitted to being a perfect match for his dear friend, he couldn't help feeling a tad bitter toward her. By some odd luck, she'd been born a girl, and therefore attractive to his John. His John...how often had he thought of him as such? But it was true, he was his. They belonged to each other in an indescribably perfect way. Sherlock didn't hate Mary, though, never once felt as though she'd truly split them up. Envy, though, tainted his friendship with her.  _Just once,_ Sherlock thought with a sleepy groan,  _just once would I like to be in his arms...loved, adored! Just once would I have him hold me._ He closed his eyes and his mind grew flooded with pleasant memories. His dear friend smiling at him, laughing with him, holding his hand. It was only natural that he'd flown with the fleetness of Mercury's winged boots when John had held his hand. Sherlock sighed, drifting off to sleep.   


  


  


  
When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was startled by the sunlight blazing into the room.  _Since when do I even open the shades? How in the world is the sun coming in?!_ He felt something warm behind him. Furthermore he felt...different. Blinking blearily, he looked straight ahead of him. He saw a nightstand, and a phone on it. He reached out for it to check the time and froze!  _Painted nails?!_ Sherlock rolled over on his back, staring at his hands, recognizing Mary Watson's engagement ring and wedding band on his finger. His eyes were drawn open wide in alarm as he looked beside him. Despite the undeniable strangeness of his waking, he gave a pleasurable sigh, feeling his heart pounding in his chest at the sight of his best friend, the man he loved. He nudged his shoulder.  


  


“John...John, wake up.”

  


“Hmm, ready for more already?” he answered, pulling Sherlock into his arms.

  


  
Frantically, Sherlock tried to force himself to come clean.  _It's John, he's my best friend, have to be honest with him._ However, all rational thought was wiped clean when he was in his arms.  _Holding me...Pull yourself together, you idiot! Stop it, stop it right now!_ “Oh...John, I love you,” he sighed, hearing it trip out in Mary's north London accent, with just a touch of a common drag to make it sound perfectly adorable. John smiled at him and kissed him on the mouth, drawing his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip. This last gesture made the self-proclaimed sociopath melt with a quivering gasp. “Oh...!” he groaned, giving in completely, surprised by the rush of tears which sprang to his eyes.  


  


“You all right?” John asked, brushing Sherlock's cheek. He nodded with a nervous smile, trying to stop himself from pouncing on his friend.

  


“Just do that again. Please...do that again.” He placed a hand against John's cheek and kissed him back; haltingly, awkwardly. Thinking was becoming nearly impossible and he didn't mind in the slightest. Sherlock nuzzled his face against him, finally just draping himself in his arms and squeezing tightly. John made a choking noise, surprised by his wife's sudden intensity. Struggling to get his breath, he coughed and gasped. Still, he didn't fight to get away. The petite, blonde woman practically had cartoon hearts floating over her head. He wondered what had gotten her so wound up. Eager to reclaim the upper hand, John tugged an arm free and slipped it under the covers, caressing his wife's leg in his usual prelude.

  


Sherlock gasped, almost twitching away, but staying perfectly still instead, curious about this sensation. The very fact that John was touching him in a sensual manner completely ceased all other higher brain functions. He simply allowed it, smiling a little as he found himself enjoying it. Then, it changed. John's hand moved inward, between Sherlock's legs, as he leaned in and kissed his neck. Sherlock's eyes snapped wide open as he felt something completely different going on below his waist. His face was frozen in shock, and he was grateful that John was too busy laying burning, maddening kisses across his collarbone to note his severe expression.

  


“Oh, my!” He gasped, compulsively seizing his friend again, clenching his thighs around his hand, trapping it there.

  


“Hmm, there's the spot,” John purred triumphantly. “No teasing you this time, Mrs. Watson.”

  


Sherlock felt himself flush at that name. He wished he knew the right thing to say or do in this situation. He wasn't exactly being straightforward with the truth; however, he wasn't making any actual effort to pose as Mary, either. He was simply himself: aroused, baffled, and completely torn. “John, please,” he moaned, releasing his leg-grip and forcing himself to relax. John took this as a good sign and continued on, bestowing kiss after mind-numbing kiss unknowingly upon his best friend.

  


They shifted together, getting comfortable as John deemed his wife ready for more. He kissed down her neck, between and across her breasts, down past her belly button. He kissed the stretch marks along her stomach, purring what a beautiful mother she was. He slipped his hands underneath, grabbing Sherlock's bottom while the latter lay still, unable to help the approving moans and sighs from passing his lips. He closed his arms around John's shoulders, and still he crept farther down.

  


“Oh...!” he gasped again as he felt John's mouth between his legs. “Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine, neon, sodium, magnesium, aluminum, silicone...” he chanted like a child at prayer, his voice rising in pitch and intensity as John continued to pleasure him.

  


“What the hell are you saying?!” he came up long enough to ask.

  


“Periodic table,” Sherlock gasped.

  


“Yeah, I can see that. Why?”

  


“I...felt I ought to say something but didn't know what.”

  


John chuckled, “You're crazy. Absolutely mad, and I love you.” He ducked back down between Sherlock's legs. “Silicone, phosphorous,” he murmured promptingly before resuming.

  


But Sherlock didn't continue his recitation, he was too focused on these strange sensations that John was treating him to. He couldn't always suppress his occasional shriek of alarm when something new happened. The next thing he knew, John was up on top of him, poised to enter. Sherlock made a series of shrill, odd sounds as he calculated exactly what was about to happen. He closed his eyes and felt him slide in. His mind flicked absurdly to nature videos of penguins gliding off of ice masses into the water. By now, he'd figured he'd made quite enough noise and should probably quit it before it struck John as suspect. He'd read about sex, heard it described by his peers at school, and had the “pleasure” of listening to a number of creaking bedsprings from those who shared his dormitory. Still he'd never bothered finding out more than the basic mechanics of it. It was all just transport, after all. Sherlock felt a pleasant friction, something building inside of him, the body he was borrowing seemed to know what to do. Sherlock relaxed into it, feeling his hips rock in time with John's. Still, he did his best to remain silent, except for the straining sounds he couldn't help.

  


Throughout his “performance”, John was getting the feeling that something was wrong. He stopped mid-thrust, panting, “Are...are you all right? Am I hurting you?”

  


“Uh, yes and no. Yes, I'm fine, I'm...I'm far better than fine, actually. I've never felt...better in my life. No, you're not hurting me. Why?”

  


“You have a look on your face. Look, you don't have to worry about waking anyone, you know. Sherlock's got the baby, they're miles away.”

  


“What are you suggesting?” Sherlock asked earnestly.

  


“I'm suggesting you let it out. Or I'll think I'm not doing this right and you're only enduring it for the sake of my pride.”

  


  
_He..._ wants _me to make noise? What does his pride have to do with it?_ He made a mental note to research the phenomenon later. “I...really don't think I sh--”  


  


“Come on, Mrs. Watson, scream for me,” he murmured between kisses. “It's music to my ears, you know that.”

  


Receiving this permission, Sherlock felt the urge rise up in him again. As an added measure, John drew his fingers lightly across his sides. The stimulation was too much for him to contain any longer, and Sherlock screamed as though he hoped to shatter glass. John finished at a close second and collapsed beside him.

  


“Oh, god...oh, god. Hold me, John. Please...just hold me,” Sherlock trembled, riding out the last wave as it coursed through him. “I can't feel my legs.”

  


John chuckled, drawing a hand down his wife's thigh. “That's funny,” he quipped, giving it a pat. “I can. It's only a problem if you really gotta go. If not, you know it always comes back. Just rest. Good?”

  


Sherlock gave a weak laugh, straightening up as he seemed to have slipped down off his pillows and was now pointed diagonally. He snuggled up in John's arms, pressing his cheek against the man's chest. All he could think of was how long he'd desired this. Just to be held, to be close. He fought tears as the man he loved draped an arm around his shoulders. _Why hadn't anyone told me it was like this? Wonderful!_ “That was...amazing,” he uttered honestly. “Extraordinary, quite...extraordinary.” He giggled to himself, having echoed John's first assessment of his observational skills. That cab ride, that case all those years ago. John didn't seem to notice or remember the significance of those words. Still, he looked pleased with the description. He kissed his forehead, they both felt perfectly snug and content. “I mean it, you know. It's amazing what you can do. I don't mean just...this, not to discount your skill in any way, of course.”

  


“Of course.”

  


“Just, the way you see the good in people. People that most would consider untouchable.” John listened somberly, guessing who those people might be. “It's remarkable, really. It's like you can...single out the people who need it most, and say 'He's my best friend, she's my wife. These are the people I want in my life. There isn't anything wrong with them.' Like going to the clearance racks at a department store and finding a vase that's been taken out of its box, maybe it's gotten cracked or chipped, but you take it home and polish up the edges, touch up the paint, fill in the cracks, and you make it whole again. You make it something useful and beautiful again. That's what you do for us. So...thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. There's nothing I'd rather have than just this short time that we're allowed on this Earth...to be with you, to...to love you.” Sherlock said all of this quite haltingly, having never told anyone he loved them before today. Now that he said it once, he wanted to go on saying it. It was all he could do to put a lid on things and only let out bits at a time.

  


John smiled, sniffling a little at this portrait that's been painted of him, casting him as some sort of patron saint of the outcasts. How much it meant for those he loved. That they would reap rewards equal to his share from their companionship. “I...I don't know what to say.”

  


“Please...just tell me you love me.” _Just once, even if he doesn't mean it for me, just to hear it from his own mouth!_  


  


“I love you, Mary,” he whispered, squeezing just a bit tighter. “I love you so much.” He thought about it for a minute with an amused grin. “And you know, I think you're right. I'm not very good at making friends, at least not with normal people. I tend to veer towards the ones who aren't exactly pleasant company. Even Major Sholto fits the bill there. And don't tell Sherlock this, because I'd never hear the end of it...but in a way, I even like Mycroft.” Shrill giggles were his reward for that pronouncement. “I mean it. He's a total bastard and I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley, especially if he was _looking_ for me, but...I think he needs a friend. And as much as they quarrel and snipe at each other, I know that on some level, he and Sherlock really do care about each other. That's what brothers are like. As stupid as that sounds, I like him. Kind of hurt he didn't come to our wedding.”  


  


“I even called him at the last minute to ask again. He...politely declined.”

  


“I never knew that.”

  


Sherlock shrugged, “I tried.”

  


“I wasn't _that_ upset about that. Just, my own sister didn't come, I'd hoped there'd be someone resembling a sibling there. Of course, there was Sherlock. God, that speech! What a mess that was! What a...beautiful, courageous, brilliant mess. Just like him. I love him to the bitter end. I do. Don't know what I'd do if you two didn't get on. You're the most important people in my life, so I'm glad you are such good friends.”

  


“We're family,” Sherlock stated simply. “Thank you for being my family, John. I was so alone, and I owe you so much.” John furrowed his brow, having recognized those last few words but couldn't say exactly when or where. Certainly significant, though. They almost struck him as ominous. Clearly, they weren't attached to a happy memory.

  


Then, with a creeping feeling of guilt, knowing he had to tell him what happened, the absurd change that had occurred, Sherlock nuzzled in cozily, drawing strength and courage to do what needed to be done. “I meant every word I said this morning, you know. Please...try to remember that later. Next time you have reason—and you will have reason, and soon—to be upset with me. It's nothing bad, not like...before. Just something tells me you won't be terribly pleased.”

  


“All right, I'll consider myself warned,” John replied, puzzling at the cryptic warning.

  


“So, it's like this...something happened last night. Something I can't explain or even understand. It wasn't something I _did,_ it just— _boom_ —happened.” And that was when John's phone rang.

  


  


While all of this was going on, Mary was waking up as well. The first thing she heard was a baby's cry. Instinctively, she got up and out of bed and began blindly wending her way to the source of the sound. However, as she stood, she felt an unexpected head-rush. Her legs felt longer, and wobbled underneath her. She opened her eyes, staring uncomprehendingly at what a long way down it suddenly was. And what big feet! She looked all around the room, old instincts kicking in, ready to spring into action at the first sign of danger. John was nowhere to be seen, the room was dark and unfamiliar. The baby gave another cry, sounding fussy, rather than distressed. “Coming, Shirley,” Mary said aloud, clapping a hand over her mouth. She knew that voice. Getting a peek in the mirror, she flinched, but nodded at the confirmation of the state of things. For the first time, she understood the new slang used by young people, “I can't even.” Up until now, she'd cringed at the expression, wishing the lazy urchins could finish a sentence. Now, as she pondered her predicament, she found that she, too, “could not even.” With an annoyed snarl and a huff, she chose to ignore the offending fact until her daughter had been tended to. Mary bent over the bassinet and scooped up the crying infant.

  


“Good morning, sweetheart,” she cooed, sounding a tad ridiculous in Sherlock's posh baritone. “Mummy's got you. Look,” she whispered confidentially, “I know I look like Uncle Sherlock, but it's really Mummy, okay?” The baby offered no opinion whatsoever on the subject. She clearly didn't care who it was as long as they could get her a bottle and a clean diaper. “Okay. Here we go. Oh, look, he does know what he's doing!” Mary exclaimed with relief, looking at the neatly-organized changing station that her friend and honorary brother-in-law had put together the night before. After changing Shirley's diaper and clothes, she carried her out to the kitchen. Bracing herself for whatever gruesome or outlandish experiments Sherlock had been up to lately, she opened the refrigerator and found a prepared bottle sitting next to a human hand in a plastic container. Not the least bit squeamish about such findings, she actually considered it mild. She shook up the bottle and put it in the microwave to warm it. Soon, mother and child were curled up together on the sofa. Getting Sherlock's long legs tucked under her comfortably took a few adjustments; letting herself go on autopilot, allowing this body to move as it saw fit helped.

  


“There, now. That's a good girl,” Mary murmured lovingly, laying aside the empty bottle and giving her baby's back a few pats. “Looks like the fates took me literally last night when I wanted to trade places with Sherlock. I only thought that because I couldn't stand to have you so far away. I didn't really mean I wanted to _be_ him. I just know your dad's not going to like this! Oh...oh, those two! What are they going to think? What can we do about this? Those poor guys,” she sighed sympathetically, but feeling something off about it. Thinking of her husband had an unexpected reaction: a vague sense of longing. Sensory memories of being maddeningly close to the man but unable to go any farther. These thoughts sparked the desire in her very skin to touch. She shook herself, blinking hard and taking some deep breaths as she processed it, and reluctantly realized what it must mean. Mary knew it wasn't coming from her. She had just been wonderfully satisfied mere hours ago, and since patching things up with her husband, they'd upheld a healthy level of closeness. She had no reason for these frustrated yearnings. And the simplicity of them: just to be held, for basic physical contact, for some sign of affection. She nursed this hurt that wasn't hers until her heart practically bled from it.  


  


“Sherlock's in love with John,” she whispered. “The poor man. For all this time.” Mary cuddled her daughter in an attempt to assuage these awful feelings. She had thought of calling them as soon as she could possibly head out. Now...something made her want to give Sherlock a little more time before breaking the illusion. “I can still call. Just to see how they are. Maybe they already know.”

  


Oddly enough, there was something pleasing about envisioning “her boys” waking up together. Given the mood he was in last night, John was probably treating Sherlock like a princess. That image in her head made Mary smile. “Easy now,” she told herself, shaking off the prickling feeling in her skin while she traipsed back into the kitchen to make some coffee for herself. While that was brewing, she got dressed, packed up all of the baby supplies, tidying up as much as she dared. After slurping down her coffee before it could register as too bitter, Mary rinsed out her mug and made one last look around. Then, she sat down to call John. She switched on Sherlock's phone; thankfully it didn't require a passcode. She opened his list of contacts and found it rather short. The only personal numbers in it were her own, John's, and Mycroft's. Scotland Yard and Bart's were both filed under “work”, and that was all. She touched on her husband's name and heard it ring on the other end.

  


  


“Hello?”

  


“John, hi. Look, did he tell you?” Mary asked cryptically.

  


“He? He who? Nobody told me anything. What are you talking about, Sherlock? It's too early for your...whatever it is you're doing,” John muttered, sounding comfortably annoyed. “You coming down, then? How did it go last night?”

  


“Just fine, I think.”

  


Back at the Watson household, they were both sitting up and stretching, actually trying to start the day. “Good, glad it worked out. Oh, here. Mary wants to talk to you.”

  


“Hello,” Sherlock began tersely.

  


“Sherlock, is that you?” Mary whispered.

  


“Yeah, yeah, glad to hear _it all went fine_ ,” he stressed, telling her while making it sound as though he's merely repeating for John's sake. “Yes, good, she slept through the night with just one feeding at midnight. No trouble at all. You're game to do it again? Oh, you are sweet,” he added. “I might just pencil you in as a regular sitter, then.”

  


On the other end, Mary slumped back in her seat, finally able to relax after hearing how well it had gone. “Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you so much.” His offer to be a regular babysitter was a welcome piece of news, too! Then, she raised her voice back to normal. “Look, I'll be right over. Unless you two are busy?”

  


Sherlock actually giggled at the suggestion. “No, we just finished up, actually. Just what the doctor ordered.” John looked startled at how up front his wife was being. She practically straight out told Sherlock they'd just had sex!

  


“Glad to hear it. See you both soon.” Mary dropped her voice back down to a whisper and added, “Better not tell him until I get there. It might be easier, seeing the two of us together. Might be more obvious we're 'being each other,' y'know?”

  


“Mm-hmm, buh-bye!” Sherlock chirped, hanging up. He turned to face John with an elfin smile, “Everything went fine, smooth sailing.”

  


“I knew it would be okay. I told you not to worry.” He got up and headed for the shower.

  


Sherlock sat with his legs hanging over the edge of the bed, examining his reflection. He pondered his morning with John, committing every detail to memory. It was bittersweet, naturally, to know such pleasure and be shown such love, knowing that he'll never experience it again. He sighed, hugging himself, hoping John won't be too angry when the truth was out. It had been all he could do not to cling to him in desperation, craving every last touch he could get from him, every fond gaze and loving word. He knew it would only make him look crazy. He agreed with Mary that it would be best to wait until the two of them were together before telling John anything. He might take it better then.

  


About 20 minutes later, John came out of the bathroom, dressed but still rubbing a towel over his head. “So, I forgot, you were saying something happened last night?”

  


“Uh, yeah. It's a bit hard to explain, especially after...well, after this morning,” he muttered, not realizing his face was drawn in a very fond smile as he gazed up at his friend. He reached for his hand and brushed it against his face. “It isn't bad, y'know. Nothing bad. Just know I meant every word I said this morning.”

  


“Wh-why do you keep reminding me of that?” John asked.

  


“Because I don't want you to forget it. Please...promise you won't forget it.”

  


John sat back down on the bed, taking in his wife's anxious face. “I promise. But, if it isn't anything bad, why are you so worried?”

  


Sherlock shrugged, patting his hand, squeezing it with a smile, just enjoying the chemical reaction going on inside his transport. _Must be post-partum hormones. I'm certainly not this giddy on my own._ So what if it will all be over in a few minutes? He just had more than he'd ever imagined. “I'll try not to be. You've handled plenty of strange things, dealt with your share of the...unusual.”

  


“Yeah, I'd say so,” John replied, thinking back to his digital tome of adventures. In his head, he heard Sherlock's voice inviting him: _Want to see some more? Oh, god, yes!_ He gazed at his wife, with her very heart in her eyes. She looked so sad, like she was never going to see him again! He didn't know what to make of it.

  


“Oh, just one more,” Sherlock sighed, pressing himself into John's arms again. “Just one more and I'll be done.”

  


“Are you sure you're all right?” John asked.

  


Sherlock nodded, “It's not as bad as it sounds, it's just...transport, you know.” And he sauntered out into the living room, leaving John behind muttering “Transport?”

  


It was with a sigh of relief that Sherlock saw his own silhouette through the curtains in the window. “Maybe...I don't know, maybe I did this somehow, brought it on. I can't help it, though, I guess I'm just jealous of her.”

  


“Her? Her who?”

  


Sherlock steeled himself before answering, “Your wife. Mary.”

  


John stared, his face went rigid, he looked daggers at the woman in the room as though she were a stranger. He drew in his lips, clenching his fists at his side. “Who...who the hell are you?!” He stomped forward, advancing menacingly. “Who—the _hell_ —are you?! What have you done with Mary?!”

  


Sherlock's eyes widened, he held up his hands, palms out in a deflecting gesture. “John, John, just calm down. It's not that bad. It's not like that at all.”

  


“Who the hell are you!?” John shouted, just as the front door opened. He turned and immediately looked worlds better. “Sherlock, thank goodness you're here. Put Shirley in her swing and back me up. Whatever you do, keep her away from that _thing!_ ”

  


Mary obeyed, returning to join the excitement. “Started without me, I see,” she murmured.

  


Sherlock gave a brief, guilty nod, biting his lip as he pondered his next move. John misinterpreted the remark, and assumed it was for him. “Yeah, I started the party without you. Glad you could join me. This...whoever this is isn't Mary. Only question is, who is it, and what happened to Mary?”

  


It was then that John's questions were answered through exercising his observational skills. He saw the woman who had been posing as his wife fling herself carelessly on the sofa and...press her hands together under her chin. John's eyes widened, a nervous tic twitched at his cheek. Slowly he turned and faced his friend. He was fidgeting, lacing his long fingers together, fiddling with his hands just like...just like Mary had been doing last night in the car. Slowly, John clapped a hand over his mouth, looking from one to the other. “No. No, no, no, no, no. Don't tell me...” he pointed between the two of them with a bemused grin on his face. “That's impossible.”

  


“I thought the same thing. Turns out it was just highly improbable. And you know what I say about that,” Sherlock corrected, outing himself completely.

  


“Oh, my god!” John roared, clutching his hands over his head. He stared at the tall, angular man next to him, squinting as if to see better. “Mary? Is that...really...?”

  


“Hello, dear,” she murmured, patting his cheek with a smile.

  


He gave a nervous laugh as well, approaching the woman on the couch with a hysterical giggle. He pointed, remarking breathlessly, “It's...it's only Sherlock.” He actually sounded relieved. Sherlock stood up next to him, waiting for any further pronouncement. John surprised him by scooping him into a hug. “God, I thought...for a second there I thought...evil doppelganger or imposter or...something. You have no idea how glad I am that it's just you.” He whacked him on the back, still looking quite hysterical underneath his veneer of relief.

  


“Just me,” Sherlock breathed, sounding annoyed with his friend's choice of words. “There's the understatement of the century,” he whispered, hugging back emotionally. “Don't—don't—don't stop...please, just let me stay. You make me feel all tingly.”

  


“Sherlock, it's all right, you can quit trying to act like Mary. The bag is markedly devoid of cats,” John reminded him. “And besides, you're doing a really poor job of it. She's never this desperate. Bit insulting to her, really, she's not _that_ crazy about me.”

  


“I wasn't trying to be Mary. Hmmph, you've already forgotten, even when you promised not to. You forgot what I told you.”

  


“What you told me?” John asked, trying to ward his friend off in the nicest way possible. He didn't think he'd keep coming at him once the cover was blown.

  


“I told you I meant every word of it. Everything I said to you today, it was all me. Every word.”

  


Mary crept over to join them fully, looking sympathetically between the two men. “John...he loves you. And unless I miss my guess, you were probably very sweet to him. You'd just finished up, after all.”

  


John looked around in surprise at Mary, then back to the woman in his arms, then back to Mary with a pleading head shake. “I am... _so_ sorry. Oh...! You're never going to forgive me for this!” He moaned, stepping away from Sherlock and reaching for Mary's hand with tightly shut eyes. He stroked it between his and gave it a pat. “God, I feel sick! I think I'm seriously going to be ill.”

  


“Why? What's wrong?” Mary asked calmly.

  


“Mary...I fucked Sherlock!”

  


Much to John's surprise, Sherlock let out a scandalized gasp. “You did not!”

  


“Sherlock, trust me, we were both there--”

  


“And I remember it vividly. Nobody _fucked_ anybody. That's a horrible thing to say!”

  


“Mary, don't listen to him, he's trying to shield me somehow. It's true, though, and I'm sorry. So sorry.”

  


“Well, I'm not sorry! I'm not trying to protect anybody, John, I'm trying to correct your language. You and I may have engaged in sexual congress, I'm not disputing that. You certainly didn't _fuck_ me! You make it sound so...violent. What we did, what you and I had...it was so nice! All cozy and warm and...”

  


“Why didn't you stop me?” John demanded. “Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you start trying to explain before I...” the next minute, words choked him and he found he could no longer speak.

  


“Before you made love to me? That's what you did, you know. What we did,” Sherlock declared. “I never understood the expression before, to be honest, but now...now I do. And, I was going to tell you straight off, I had every intention to when I woke up and realized, but...”

  


“But what?!”

  


“But then you kissed me and it all went fuzzy. You...had your arms around me, and you were just touching and kissing me, and...frankly, I haven't touched solid ground since. I didn't stop you because I _didn't want to._ At least not enough to tell you. You have no idea how long I wanted...that. You were just amazing. I can still feel it,” he smiled weakly.

  


John backpedaled, bumping into his wife who laid her her hands on his shoulders. They drifted down a minute later, clutching around the middle of his chest while she rested her chin on the top of his head. She smiled, sensing her loaner body's approval of these circumstances. In her head, she could hear a cat purring contentedly.

  


“Just be nice to him,” she whispered, bending down to kiss his cheek. It was an unusual experience for her to be a few inches taller than her husband. She felt like a giant! “At least stop using the f-word, you can see it upsets him.”

  


Struggling away, John turned in place to face Mary. “Don't, just...don't.” He shuddered. “Nothing personal, but...” he trailed off with another involuntary shiver.

  


With a look of disgust and transparent disappointment, Mary stalked out and picked up her daughter, “Come on, sweet pea, Daddy and Uncle Sherlock are having a domestic.”

  


  


Silence drew out between the two of them for several minutes. They heard Mary puttering in the kitchen, probably preparing another bottle for Shirley, who sat reclined in a bouncy chair. Mary hummed to herself and carried on a once-sided conversation with her baby, muttering about her ridiculous lot in life as well as those within her orbit. All moderate annoyance aside, though, she sounded as though she was taking things as well as she could. John turned his gaze to Sherlock, realizing with a scowl that _he_ didn't seem to mind terribly much, either. It wasn't an Earth-shattering turn of events, just an irritating inconvenience that would have to be remedied. “Well? _”_ John asked his friend, crossing his arms over his chest. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  


Sherlock smirked with a shrug and answered, “What can I say? Just, I'm glad my first time was with someone I love.”

  


At those words, the world around John froze in place. He caught himself against the wall to keep from collapsing in surprise, and he stood there, staring uncomprehendingly at his friend. “That...that...? Ahem, that was your...you first...?” Sherlock nodded, just smiling at him with soft eyes. “Don't, don't look at me like that! Christ, you're not her! Stop giving me that sad, lovesick...face! Don't you...don't you look at me like...God, Sherlock! You're in love with me?!” John felt like he was spinning, spinning rapidly out of control. He thought back moments ago to when he and Sherlock were snuggled together in bed. How pleased he'd been! Speechlessly happy! No wonder he hadn't said anything. Who would?

  


Sherlock scoffed with a toss of his head, “You're just figuring this out now? What would it have taken? A sky-writer? A singing telegram? Perhaps a message tied to a flaming arrow shot inches from your head? As always, my dear, you see but you do not observe. In this case, you barely even see,” he muttered darkly. “Whatever your feelings on the matter are, I am going to remember this morning until my dying day.” He sank back down onto the couch. Surprisingly, John sat down next to him and took his hand. “I never loved anybody before, I don't know how to handle this. Y'know how long I've just wanted this? Just this?” He patted their entwined hands for emphasis.

  


John was reeling, having faced one bombshell after another. His wife and his best friend had swapped bodies, and now said friend just confessed his love for him. “Just this?” He repeated, looking him square in the eye. “I never thought--”

  


“That much is obvious,” Sherlock giggled.

  


“Never thought or even wondered about your sexual history.”

  


“Not much to wonder about. You're it.”

  


“But you...” John argued, unwilling to believe it, unable to believe that he'd just deflowered his best friend. “I mean, from a strictly heterosexual perspective anyway,” Sherlock snorted back laughter at the disclaimer. John glowered at him. “I'm trying to say you're normally a good-looking man. How in the world were you still a virgin until this morning?”

  


“It was my own choice. I never wanted anybody, never cared for anybody before you. Then you had to...had to go and give me a human heart! You were worried just now that you'd violated me, that you'd harmed me. I can tell! You regretted this morning for my sake after you were done sulking that you'd been defiled by me. You did far worse than this to me years go and thought nothing of it. I never even _liked_ anybody before I knew you! Then you came along, needing a flatmate...making me _like_ you, making me your...your friend. God, please hold me,” he murmured, dropping his head into his hands. John obeyed, draping an arm loosely around his shoulders, patting his back while just looking straight ahead. He began to wonder if there was anything normal left in his life. What is normal, anyway? Sherlock grasped his hand again. “I love you,” he muttered, patting his hand. He started to cuddle in, but John jumped back up as if he'd been bitten. It was then that Mary came back out with three steaming mugs of tea.

  


She handed them around, remarking, “Now I know why we have certain rituals we cling to. In time of crisis, when there are no immediate solutions to be had, we at least have this much to fall back on and rebuild from.” She took a seat and gave them a weak grin, sipping her tea.

  


The others looked at her gratefully, glad for something warm to hold onto, for something to do with their hands. It was true, there were no immediate solutions to their predicament. Sherlock seemed to be nearing total emotional collapse, gazing at John with a quivering lip. He'd just been put through the wringer. He was totally unaccustomed to such stimuli and was having quite a bit of trouble processing them. Mary popped back into the kitchen and dragged out the baby in her bouncy chair to keep her in sight.

  


John found he couldn't look at anybody. He stared straight down into his mug with glassy eyes, as if hoping to find the answer to this particular mystery at the bottom of it.

  


“I suppose we have lots to discuss. Sherlock,” Mary began softly, “Why don't you start? What's on your mind?” All it took was those words to make John realize that throughout this ordeal, he hadn't asked either of them how they were coping. If they were all right, if they were merely faking their relative calm for his sake.

  


Sherlock made a wry face, scowling into his mug as well. Steadying himself with a long, fortifying sip, he began. “He loved me. He did. He loved me, he said so. He held me close and he loved me!” He set his tea aside and slumped against the arm of the sofa. Sherlock screwed his face up against the pain, the confusion. He looked across at Mary with a watery smile. “He was so sweet, he did the most marvelous things. You're so _lucky,_ Mary! Never forget that. Never. When he smiles at you, touches you, holds your hand, says your name with that tone of voice! I didn't want to tell him. I could have seen how long I could live as you without him realizing. I'm willing to bet that it would have taken a while, if I hadn't been so bloody honest with him. He didn't pick up that anything was amiss, did you, John? For all you knew, until I told you otherwise, I could have been Mary, couldn't I?”

  


John chose not to answer, disturbed already by the truth of his friend's suggestion. Sure “Mary” had seemed to be oddly emotional this morning, in that “she” didn't seem to know how to contain it at times, but nothing had outright screamed that his wife had been replaced by a completely different person. It didn't help that “she” hadn't even gotten dressed yet. There was always something irresistibly adorable and endearing about seeing his wife in her early-morning look. Comfortable cotton pyjamas, no makeup on, hair still a bit of a mess. In addition to all that, today, she, or her “transport”, rather, was sporting stubble-burns and a hickey on her neck from last night...or was it this morning? John groaned, covering his face with both hands, wishing that whatever the universe thought it was doing to him, that it would please stop. He'd made love to his best friend. Been told that he was marvelous, that Sherlock was _glad_ that his first time had been with him, with someone he loved. Loved!

  


John took both of his friend's hands in his, squeezing them as Sherlock leaned in to nuzzle their foreheads together. John endured these caresses, reminded again how new all of this must be to his friend. In the space of a few hours he'd been forced to come to terms with love realized, love returned, and love refused. His confusion and heartache were plain on his face. “Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I only hope we can be friends after this. You're my best friend. I can't imagine life without you. If I lose you because of this, I'll never forgive myself.”

  


“You still want me? Oh...well, that's good. Yes, yes, that should be fine. I'll pull myself together, I will. Can you, or Mary, help me? I don't know how to do this, how to deal with this. And I'm not talking about the bodies thing. I mean us. I just need help maneuvering, y'know? Or...might you feel differently now? I mean, I realize you could never love me looking like that,” he nodded at his normal mode of transport, “But this! You like this, you're attracted to this. You've told me that you care for me, and now I've got a body you're drawn to, fond of. I can't promise I'd be good to you, I'd probably be just as much an insufferable bastard as I ever was, but I feel so beautiful like this. So beautiful.”

  


This poor broken-hearted, emotionally-neglected, and confused creature caused sympathy to twist painfully into John's heart. He held his friend close, feeling his heart racing next to his skin. “Stop it, Sherlock, just stop it. You'll only hurt yourself. No. The answer's no, Sherlock. It's a bit more complicated than that. Yes, I care for you. Yes, you're presently occupying a body that I find physically attractive, but it's not that simple. What you're feeling right now, the elevated pulse, the hormonal imbalance, the physical demands, the insanity of it all...what you're feeling for me is what I feel for Mary. I love Mary, Sherlock. I'm sorry for hurting you.”

  


Sherlock nodded sadly. “I understand. You sated some of my cravings, but I still...I still quite like to be held. Maybe I didn't get hugged enough when I was a kid.”

  


Mary shifted in her seat, unable to sit still comfortably. “John, this might be a complicated question with an answer that nobody's going to like...but are we all right? You and me? What are we now, exactly? You keep saying you're not gay, you're not attracted to...” she looked down at her current body. “Can't see why you're not, he's gorgeous.” She stood and turned around, striking a bit of a pose with her hands on her hips. “I mean, really, look at those legs! Perfect figure,” she remarked, sliding her hands down herself with pleasure. Sherlock took in her assessment with a growing smile. He needed to have his vanity stroked after the time he's had.

  


He then figures that one good turn deserves another. “Oh, but you're precious! I have no idea where you picked up your accent, but it's just perfect for you. And those eyes of yours, with a smile that lights up the room. Not to mention you're a crack shot!”

  


All three of them burst into nervous laughter. All three of them were painfully aware of what a good shot Mary was.

  


“And that's why I married her,” John remarked sarcastically. “Mary, I don't honestly know the answer to that. I just hope this isn't permanent. Sherlock, why don't you go take a cold shower?”

  


“Good idea, Doctor.”

  


  


Once the other two were alone, they just stared at each other, sipping their drinks in turn, neither of them sure what they can even say. John looked totally embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Mary was the one to break the silence.

  


“You must've been good,” she remarked shortly with a cheeky grin. “I should've known that if Sherlock ever really fell in love, he'd do it in the most unstable and unhinged way possible. Poor guy.” Then, she leaned forward in her seat, patting John's knee to get his attention, “So, tell me all about it. Go on.”

  


Hearing his wife sound so like herself brought a smile to John's face in spite of his distress. “I thought it was you.”

  


“I know, it's why I'm not angry. Whatever you did to turn Sherlock into a little lost puppy who'll follow you everywhere had to have been good!”

  


“I just did what you like,” he muttered, turning red around the ears. “And boy, did he ever! Why didn't I notice? Something that big slipping past me? Mary, Sherlock is in love with me! When in the world did that happen?!”

  


Mary reached across and took his hand with a smile, feeling her heart thrilling at this simple contact. She sensed the long pent-up frustration in the body she was wearing like an oversized coat. She delved deeper still until her eyes glistened in sympathy. “Please, just this once,” she whispered, low and husky. Without another word, she got up and joined her husband on the couch, laying her head in his lap like a cat, willing him to pet her. “He wants this...he wants this so badly. So simple, just to be near you, to be touched, gentled like this.” She peered up at John, then took his hand and drew it over her cheek, coaxing it through her hair. “Oh, that's nice. Everything he's ever wanted.”

  


“So...you know what he feels?” John asked as he reluctantly followed along with her request. He tried not to look at her, to not actually see his hand caressing Sherlock's face, pretending he couldn't hear the distinctly masculine pleasure-sounds she was making. _It's Mary, it's Mary, I'm touching Mary._ He drilled that fact into his head as his wife then took him by the hand again and drew his arm around her shoulders with a soft sigh of content. John found it oddly sweet that this was all that Sherlock desired from him. He thought about their activities this morning with a suppressed laugh. The more he thought of it, the more laughable it was! “Christ, was he...was he ever surprised! That explains it, it really does.”

  


Mary chuckled along with him, and then answered his question. “I feel...echoes of it. Things he's felt strongly enough to make an impression. I can't tell you which football team he supports, if any, I don't know what his favorite colour is, or whether he prefers red wine or white--”

  


“Arsenal, but only to annoy Greg Lestrade; purple, I think, at least that colour looks best on him; and he doesn't drink, nor should he,” John answered without even thinking about it.

  


Sherlock stood in the doorway, grinning at John's recitation. Regardless of the fact that there was no romantic possibility between them, it touched him to hear how well his friend knew him. They'd never be a couple, but they'd always be a pair. As he sat down in the seat that Mary had been occupying, he certainly looked much better. The cold water seemed to have done the trick. The mad, feverish desire appeared to have been washed away. Seeing the two of them cuddled up like that helped. He wished he could take a picture of them like this, pretend it was him, as something to remember it by.

  


John's eyes flicked right to him and held him in a long gaze. He was dressed in the clothes Mary had worn yesterday, presumably because he picked them up off the floor and hadn't been in the mood to go snooping. “God, you're beautiful,” John sighed involuntarily. Sherlock glowed with pleasure, bringing his hands to his mouth in a feminine twitch. He detected the cruelty hidden in the kindness, though; knowing it wasn't meant for him, that it would never be for him.

  


“John...” he gasped, stopping himself for reaching for him. It took a great deal of struggle, but he was finally able to come back to himself. He shook off the complimentary remarks, muttering, “Oh, shut up.”

  


Mary joined in, sitting up and giving her husband a scornful nudge. “Really, John, quit being such a tease. That wasn't nice.”

  


“Well, you are. Beautiful.”

  


Mary raised her eyebrows at him, “And now? Like this?”

  


Here, John struggled, looking between his wife and his best friend with a light, deflecting laugh, hoping he can weasel out of this one. “Now? Like this? Well, you're...that is...”

  


“Oh, come on!” Sherlock barked, “What did you just tell me a minute ago? You can't tell your wife that she's a handsome man?”

  


John's eyes bugged out of his head as he tried to process that. He looked over at Mary, hoping she would take his side, but no. She was waiting expectantly with a little smile on her face. “All right...” he sighed, patting her knee. “Mary, you're a handsome man. I mean it. There, are you both happy?”

  


This was meant to be a rhetorical question, but both parties nodded, murmuring general agreement. John grumbled and stood up, scooping up his daughter and removing himself from the situation for now. His wife and best friend looked at each other and shrugged. Mary patted the seat next to her and Sherlock took it, both of them coping with a share of his aching need to be close, for the comfort of another person. They cuddled up together, and Mary took a deep whiff of her own body.

  


“God, you smell like him.”

  


“What would you expect, after the morning I had?” Sherlock replied naughtily. “I want him...I've never _wanted_ anyone before, it's so frustrating! I mean, before, I loved him, stared at him, wondered...about things. And now? Now that I know what it's like, I...” he broke off, pressing himself into Mary's arms while she held him sympathetically. She understood. It was all too much for him. He couldn't just walk away from it and pretend everything was fine. More than just the physical act of love, the intent behind it was enough to break the man's heart. His breath came in heavy, irregular gulps, sounding as though he was choking...then, with an unfamiliar keening sound, they both realized he was having his first good cry. Mary felt quite natural comforting him. She held the poor tormented soul while he cried it out.

  


“For one brilliant morning, he acted like loved me back. It was wonderful. I just wish it could have been real, could have been for me. Stay with me,” he begged. “I don't want to be alone. Don't let him leave me. Please. Oh, it hurts! Why does it hurt like this?!”

  


“It's all right,” Mary soothed, “We'll stay with you.” She looked up and locked eyes with her husband who just returned with the baby. “We'll both stay. You won't be alone. No one's going to leave you alone. Especially not like this,” she added with a laugh. As she held him cozily, her thoughts involuntarily filled with John. She closed her eyes with a heartsick sigh. Those arms ached to be around him. Her own body was an interesting substitute.

  


“You're warm. It's nice,” Sherlock murmured.

  


John stared down at the pair of them, wondering why the sight of the two of them cuddled together didn't bother him. He looked from one to the other: they were both Sherlock, they were both Mary. The two people he loved most in all the world. He heaved a groaning sigh, set Shirley back down in her bouncy chair, and nudged the two of them apart, settling down between them. As though this was exactly what they both had been hoping for, Sherlock and Mary shifted a bit to adjust into a comfortable three-way cuddle. John turned and faced both of them in turn, tracing their faces, brushing foreheads together, looking utterly confused but in a pleasant enough way. When he was facing one, the other would give him a squeeze from behind, nuzzling his neck and kissing down his shoulders longingly. He felt tears and shaky gasps from both of them. Heard whispered words of love and devotion from both. It was utterly bizarre, but John had never dreamed of being so loved.

  


“Is this supposed to be some lesson for me? To make it blindingly obvious that you two are the same person?” A dark, wicked chuckle on one side; a coy, female giggle on the other. He turned to his wife, his (hopefully) temporarily male wife, taking all of it in...finding that it didn't make him love her any less. She couldn't help what she looked like any more than Sherlock ordinarily could. He knew this clarity couldn't last, that he couldn't hang onto this perfect mental state forever, but now, he thought what an odd thing sexuality was. That you would accept or discard a human being based only on “transport.” Maybe Sherlock was onto something in the way he referred to his body. Transport wasn't important.

  


“I should warn you,” Mary gasped, blushing and trembling. “My impulse control isn't that great like this. I can't...I can't...stop myself much longer. Oh, he wants...!” And she sprang at him, kissing him on the mouth with a throaty groan, nipping at his lips. It felt foreign to her, like trying to write with a non-dominant hand. The mind knows what it wants to do, but the body isn't familiar. John found himself being heartily kissed by his wife, as Sherlock would have. Feverishly, madly, as one who'd only ever read about it. He kissed back, lapping at her, loving her, not caring about something as trivial as physical appearance. When they at last broke apart, Mary had the strangest look on her face. She was blinking and shaking her head, then looking down at her lap...

  


John followed her line of vision and quickly looked up and away. “Well, that seems to be working just fine,” he remarked in his best doctor's office tone. “Just think about lemurs or something until it goes away. Hate to say it, Mary, because I still love you, but I don't drive a stick shift. Understand?”

  


Sherlock got the gist of what happened and couldn't stop a snort of laughter while he had the image in his head. “In all seriousness, John, thank you for this.” They faced each other and John could see just how much it meant for Sherlock. To be in a pleasing shape for him, for now. He found himself drawn to those eyes, smiling wanly as he caressed his friend's face. “Oh, darling,” Sherlock gasped frustratedly. He rubbed noses with him lightly with a soft sigh before leaning in for a kiss. John kissed soft, female lips and thought of Sherlock. His arms full of his best friend in the world. He felt himself blushing, replaying moments when he especially loved him. In that moment, John thought to himself, _What's the difference, anyway?_ He ended it with an audible smooching sound, and John pressed his face against Sherlock's shoulder, holding him tightly. Then, he heard a whisper--

  


“John...John, I'm back!”

  


Pushing away slightly to look at the woman in his arms, he looked over his shoulder at Sherlock who had his hand pressed to his lips, tears running down his face. Then, he faced Mary again, who smiled with a weak titter, bringing a hand to her forehead.

  


“Oh, thank goodness that's over! You don't want to know what it's like in that head of his!”

  


“I can imagine.”

  


“John? Darling?” Sherlock gasped absently, still trembling from the multiple shocks his mind and body had suffered recently. He patted his face, ran his fingers through his hair, breathing deeply to steady himself.

  


“All right?” John asked, turning to him again.

  


“Fine. I'll be fine. That was...amazing.” He let out his breath heavily, fanning himself off. “Just incredible, really. That was...mmm!” He uttered ineloquently. “All right, Mrs. Watson can keep you,” he purred, tracing his friend's face. “Just know how loved and special you are, my dear. I'll be all right.”

  


This didn't mesh with how Sherlock had been behaving up until now. John gave him a puzzled look. “Why?”

  


“You kissed me, held me,” he answered lazily, brushing a finger across his friend's lips.

  


“I did plenty of that earlier and it only made you worse.”

  


“Yes, well, that was because you'd meant it for Mary. A moment ago, it was for me, I could tell.” He brought their foreheads together again, ruffling John's hair in friendly affection. “That's all I needed. Just for it to be for me, just for a moment.” He looked over at his unofficial sister-in-law. “Treasure him, all right?”

  


“I will. Still on board for watching Shirley?” She asked in reply.

  


Sherlock gave his family a genuine smile, then scooped up the baby onto his lap. “I wouldn't miss it.”


End file.
